What’s the point of any of it, now, really? And not just the Bears’ season, I mean. We know our world is capable of producing something as wholly dreadful as that “football” game, and it’s tough to want to be a part of it.

Gray, leaden skies and blustery cold. Officials pointing the wrong way and calling penalties on players who don’t exist. Broadcasters who have no idea who is doing what, or how to describe any of it. Frank Omiyale false-starting on a field goal attempt. No third-down conversions in eleven tries.

Tyler Palko. Caleb Hanie. May there be mercy upon our souls, what’s left of them.

As reverberations continue well after its end, I am increasingly worried that his game may, in fact, be the trigger event for the downfall of modern society. Markets crash worldwide, and banks fail. Businesses collapse, governments crumble, and currencies become worthless. We may soon wander a barren, burned-out wasteland, scavenging for food.

The smallest player on the field catches a deflected desperation pass for a touchdown. More seven-step drops that cannot be blocked. Matt Forte suffers a severe knee-injury.

It will be all we can do each night to stoke a meager campfire in what’s left of a ruined building, keeping our children warm. “How did this happen, Dad?” they will ask, looking at us with weary, sunken eyes. “Were there really two white safeties on the field at the same time? And did the man on TV actually compare them to Gary Fencik and Doug Plank?”

“Yes,” we will reply. “Yes.”

Then we will watch the flickering, furtive shadows for signs of the Others, who come at night.

Two missed chances for interceptions. Delay of game on a pooch punt. Devin Hester waving his arms instead of using his feet, making every possible wrong decision, then finally deciding to run backwards. Robbie Gould hooks a 41-yard field goal attempt. Lance Louis late out of his stance. Todd Haley’s beard.

Roads become rubble, so we will walk rutted paths during the few hours of daylight, unsure where to go. Before the noon kickoff of Chiefs at Bears on 12/4/11 (“The Monstrosity,” as it will be called), we mattered as human beings. After, we are barely human at all – mere husks, now, moving morosely toward nonexistence. We hear only the shrill cries of the crows in between bites of carrion, distant bursts of gunfire, and the ceaseless roar of the wind.

Draw plays into the second level of the defense. The defensive holding call on Charles Tillman to continue a drive. And Roy Williams at the goal-line. Roy Williams.

There will be the faint crackle of a hand-cranked emergency radio, lifting hearts for a brief moment – it could be a beacon, a sign of a friendly encampment, some gathering of people together to begin to re-weave the social fabric torn asunder by what occurred at Soldier Field.

But, no, all we hear through buzzes of static are Doug Buffone and Ed Obradovich, bellowing about line stunts and the timing of zone coverage schemes. We are cold, and hungry.

There is, still, talk of one great, saving grace.

Perhaps, soon, Tim Tebow will deliver us from this evil. He will carry us heavenward on a glorious left arm, redeeming us from the sins inherent in having witnessed all this, restoring our world to something resembling what we remember. He is said to be coming.